


Drugged

by meaninglessblah-oc (meaninglessblah)



Series: Retributory Shroud [2]
Category: Original Work, Retributory Shroud
Genre: Alternate universe - Mafia, Bars and Pubs, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Flirting, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26251723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah-oc
Summary: To celebrate Retributory Shroud reaching 75,000 words.A prequel excerpt set before the main fic.
Series: Retributory Shroud [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869295
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Drugged

**Author's Note:**

> **This excerpt contains spoilers for the main fic. It is advised that you read to at least Chapter 26 before reading the below.**

“Sorry,” a voice laughs, bright and obnoxiously close to his ear, “he’s a sloppy drunk.” 

Jugend can’t feel his toes. The room is spinning, too badly to be chalked up to how much alcohol he’s had. He knows it’s a lot, but this is too much to justify. 

He wants to throw up. He gasps, keels forward to aim away from his shoes, but someone coos and tilts his head back against a shoulder, their hand startlingly cool on his forehead. 

“Woah there, baby, don’t wanna be eating pavement, do we?” 

Jugend groans, tries to talk but can’t get his mouth to cooperate. He’s moving, and it’s only making his nausea worse. There’s a bruising pressure against his rightside ribs that he can’t seem to shake, and the warmth of a body smothered along his left. 

“Few more steps, little prince. Mind your head.” 

He’s turned, his equilibrium scrambling for a reference point as everything keels sideways, and Jugend’s sure he’s going to retch. He hits something soft but firm - leather? Maybe? - and then someone’s leaning over him with a breathless sort of laugh. 

A hand touches his jaw, and Jugend moans and tries to turn away before it latches on with painful intensity. 

“I know you’re conscious, you little whore,” the person above - _over_ \- him asserts, tone low and harsh, still dancing along that coy edge of amusement. Jugend whines at the sound of it, blinking to clear his vision as he’s shaken roughly. “I want your legs in this car. Or do I need to give you a top up?” 

“Fuck you,” Jugend slurs, turning his face away from the leather so he can breathe. His chest feels compressed against the seats, every breath a challenge. 

Then there are fingers in his mouth, sliding slick and abrasive over his gums as Jugend tries to jerk back and smacks his head against the leather interior. 

The nausea swells when the man withdraws his hand, Jugend’s gums tingling in the absence. His mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, unresponsive when he tries to bleat a protest. 

He tries to spit a, “Motherfucker,” but he’s not sure he’s anywhere near the mark. The spinning reaches a blinding crescendo, and Jugend presses his eyes shut forcefully. 

Someone pats his hip with a patronising tap. “You sit pretty, little prince. We’ll have you away in no time.” 

Jugend whines when the vehicle jostles, a door cracking shut with a crescendo that is deafening on his senses. He can’t do more than suck down sharp, startled breaths as the man slides into the front passenger seat and the car lurches away. 

He’s more than certain he’s been drugged. Aside from the unnerving lack of coordination from his limbs, Jugend’s struggling to keep a single thought at the forefront of his mind for more than a minute. Certainly not long enough to do something about his situation. 

He has no fucking clue who these two men are, or what they want from him. Or want him for. 

They’d slotted themselves near him early in the evening, lingering in Jugend’s corner of the club as he’d flagged down a round of shots for a table of new friends he’d made. He can’t recall any of their names, but they’d been the youngest people in the nightclub by a margin, and they’d been fun, so Jugend had waved off the bouncer that had come to collect their probably-underaged asses. 

Jugend hadn’t really noticed either of the men until one had leaned up on the empty bar next to him, too close to be friendly and too amused to be benevolent. He’d paused, gaze flickering up from his half-empty drink over those unexceptional features, and demanded, “Can I help you?” 

“You’re a little young to be in a place like this, aren’t you?” the man had asked, and Jugend had bristled. He’s tall for his age, the handful of inches lending themselves to people assuming he’s in his later teens. 

Jugend had given him a severe smile and lolled against the counter. “What’s it to you?” 

The man had huffed in private amusement. “Enjoying a night on the town, I see. What are you drinking?” 

Jugend had grinned and lifted his tumbler to his lips, taking a long sip while the man had smiled down at him. Draped himself back over the counter, because the openness had felt good on his sweat-slicked skin. The club was a throbbing heart of movement and passion, pulsing against his ear drums and his skull and his chest with every beat of music. 

The man had smiled wider at his coy posture, closed the distance between them with a single long stride. Jugend had hummed and dragged the cool edge of the glass over his lips, sliding his gaze over the neat cut of the man's leather jacket. A little too neat for a place like this. 

When he had lifted a hand to hover in the air beside Jugend’s cheek, he’d just flashed the man a smile and a slow, permissive blink. He wasn’t new to flirting. Jugend was as charismatic as they came. Hardly surprisingly when someone took him up on his offer. 

The man’s touch had been warm on his cheek, nail scraping just the slightest amount against his skin, just hard enough to have Jugend’s veins singing in response. He’d lowered the glass in his hand, but held the man’s stare, chin tilted upright the barest amount to meet the heat in his gaze as that touch had descended. 

“That’s a pretty little scar you got there,” he had crooned, tracing the length of the scar where it rolls over Jugend’s tendon. He doesn’t flinch, but he does arch his neck away from the slide of that finger. “What are you, fifteen? Sixteen? How’d you get a scar like that?” 

“Sixteen,” Jugend answers with bared teeth, just a hint of pride in his tone. 

“Oh, that’s way too young to be letting you run loose. They don’t actually let you outside, do they?” He had paused to laugh at Jugend’s expression. “Make my job so easy for me.” 

He hadn’t understood what he’d meant by that comment. Whether he’d been being coy or whether he was actually stupid enough to threaten one of the soon to be newly appointed heads of the Erdefunfte mafia. Jugend had barked a laugh and brushed it off with disdain. 

He’d felt daring, felt energised by the thrum of alcohol in his veins, the pulse of the music in his chest. 

“What job would that be?” he’d returned, leaning into the man’s touch and lifting his tumbler to his lips. 

Whatever the man’s response had been was derailed when a figure jostled Jugend, sloshing his drink as his gaze had flashed up. A hand had shot out to steady him, and Jugend had glared at the quick apology the man had flung in his direction before scampering off. 

The man opposite him had turned to see him leave, smiling when he’d returned to watch Jugend down most of his whiskey. “So how about that scar, little prince? Who put a knife on an Erdefunfte?” 

Jugend had frowned, shifting out from under his touch at the words. His family had left their mark on this city for generations, so he was fairly well-known in certain circles. But not well enough to be recognised on sight. 

He had eyed the man warily, leaned back on one elbow to assess him as he’d sipped down the dregs of his drink. It’d left a bad taste in his mouth, bitter and salty in a way that had stung his tongue. He’d frowned at its empty base, gaze snapping up when the man had chuckled. 

“Just you wait, baby prince,” the man had purred, and Jugend’s chin had risen, his shoulders flattening out with realisation that this was a _threat._ “I’m gonna knock that crown right off your pretty little head.” 

Rage had spiraled through him, steady and grounding, wound in tight, garroting confidence. He’d been threatened before, had his life called into the balance. He was _mafia._ They barely irked him anymore, but propriety was propriety, and no one threatened an Erdefunfte without living to regret it. 

“If you wanna take me,” Jugend had sneered, “you’re gonna have to take me spitting blood.” 

The man chuckled. Reached out to touch his jaw, and Jugend had jerked his head back on principle, unease searing through him. The man’s extended palm had shifted to pin his wrist to the counter, grinding down on the bones as he’d forcefully intertwined their fingers. Jugend had resolved not to flinch as he’d straightened to layer himself down the line of his body. 

The man had been the barest inch taller, his breath cloying when it’d washed softly over Jugend’s slack face. “And get blood on those pretty lips of yours, little prince? I don’t think so.” 

His lips had curled back, his response hissed through bared teeth. “I won’t come quietly.” 

It’d been swallowed up by the thrum of the music, but the man had heard it, had grinned slow and predatory. “I think you will, little prince. In fact, I’ll bet on it.” 

Jugend’s eyes had narrowed, discomfort taking root at the man’s warm, blistering confidence. He’d tapped his empty glass on the counter, wrist still fettered in the man’s grip, and it’d been obediently whisked out of his grasp to be refilled. The man had turned his head to watch the bartender work, smile tugging at his lips. 

“Drunk a bit much already, haven’t you?” 

_That_ hadn’t sat with him nearly as easily as his other comments had, and Jugend had frowned, had turned to accept the fresh drink, rest a finger on its rim. That salty taste had lingered on his gums, sinking into his awareness as slow dread had filled him. 

He’d jerked his free hand up with a garbled, “ _Fuck,_ ” fingers jabbing for his open throat. The man had closed the half-step of distance between them, all of him hot where it’d pressed through Jugend’s suit, pivoting to pin him half against the counter. His hand had wrapped over Jugend’s uncaged wrist, yanking it down and away before Jugend could force himself to retch. 

“I don’t think so, little prince,” he’d said, soft and velvet, in Jugend’s ear as he’d flinched back, arms pinned firmly. The dread had spiraled, nausea roiling in his gut. Not enough to convince his body to relinquish whatever they’d spiked his drink with. 

“Let go of me,” he’d demanded, cold and quiet. 

A knee had knocked between his, trapping him more firmly against the bar as Jugend had twitched. “Soon, little prince. Just need to wait for it to kick in.” 

He’d given up pretenses then, twisting his wrists viciously in an attempt to pull away, a protest drowned by the music rising on his lips. He’d been aware of a second man sidling up behind him, the one who had bumped him earlier, to trap him between them. 

Jugend’s throat had closed on the hopeless panic, pressed between their casual postures, unable to shake himself free. In the back of his mind, he’d wondered where the fuck Moreno had wandered off to. Or his second-in-command. Or any of his security team. Recalled watching them step out for a relief break outside, to have a cigarette probably, leaving him here. 

Alone. 

He’d felt the dizziness rush up on him, so much sooner than he’d thought possible, heard the cry of dismay part from his own lips. Felt the rush of fear dampen his limbs as the man had grinned. 

“There we go,” he’d purred, and shifted to pull Jugend into his side. His fingers had slipped off his fresh glass, slack and pliant as Jugend had reeled. “Just you stick with us, little prince. We’re going to take _good care_ of you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
